They nod. ‘And to your husband, of course.’
He isn’t my husband and his name is Will. He definitely won’t be going anywhere near your extension now. They stride away speedily and I take a long sip of my lemonade.
‘Crumbs, where are those two bitches from?’ Paddy announces, possibly still within earshot.
‘Mother–baby group thing. We didn’t quite click.’
‘You think? Are they all like that then?’
‘Mostly. I’ve done that circuit of classes and groups. I went to the local community centre, some music thing. It was—’
‘Shit?’
‘Strangely competitive. Look how well my baby can keep rhythm and pick things up! And Joe just really wasn’t bothered.’
‘Of course. Because Joe is super smart and knows what’s worth his time.’ My son seems to smile in agreement. ‘And did you see their babies? Joe is bloody handsome. I’ve not seen a better-looking baby and that’s before my own grandkids. And who calls a baby Leonard? That’s just cruel.’
I laugh under my breath. ‘Fanny would have been cruel. I think Leonard is verging on trendy.’
‘And he wasn’t good-looking. Face like a cabbage. She’s just inviting that kid to be beaten up when he’s older.’
‘You can’t say that about a baby, Paddy.’
‘I’ll say what I like when people are obviously not very nice.’ He returns a hand on top of mine. I don’t need him to slag off innocent babies to make me feel better but I’m grateful for it nonetheless.
‘You do have other friends though, yes? Mum friends?’ he asks, concern on his face.
I nod but it’s not really the truth. I mean Facebook and Instagram tell me I have about four hundred friends, really. I’m also members of forums and groups where my friends are random people who swap advice over cheap nappies and start conversation threads that voice their anger over people nicking parent–child parking spots. They’re avatar pictures and emoji friends who I engage with so I can just watch them have heated debates that devolve into raging online fights. I have university friends but they live miles away so they’ve become ‘social media likes and comments’ kinda mates. I guess I have my sisters? I have Will? It’s one of those close-knit circle things.
Platters of fish and chips suddenly make an appearance next to us and I sit back from the table as a bosomy waitress puts them down. The scents of salt, vinegar and deep-fried battered goodness fill my nostrils and my body relents. Feed me this, immediately.
‘Isn’t he a gem? What’s his name?’ The waitress holds on to my baby’s fingers and he gazes up at her.
‘This is Joe.’
‘You’re making my ovaries hurt. Treasure them when they’re like this. They grow up so quickly.’
I never get the meaning of that sentence. At 3.a.m. when he’s howling the place down, I feel no need to treasure that moment. I want to put him on eBay but I don’t say that out loud. She waves at Joe as she walks away and I pick up his hand to wave back. Paddy’s eyes light up at the ‘fat’ chips he so desired and he goes crazy with the condiments. I hope Betty is looking down at this fried feast and smiling. I pick up my glass in front of me.
‘To Betty?’
He nods but doesn’t reply. It should be her sitting here seeing in their fifty years of marriage. The smile, the eyes, tell me how much he misses her. We clink glasses and Joe gurgles in approval. I’m going to have to balance him on my lap now, ensure he doesn’t grab at things and I don’t use him like a napkin. This is the true, delicate balancing act of motherhood.
‘Hello, there little man,’ say a voice, popping up behind me.
It’s a gentleman who was sitting at that meeting a few tables down. He’s dressed in black skinny jeans and a brightly patterned shirt, his black and white peppered hair well styled.
‘I am so sorry to disturb your dinner. I really am. I’m Giles.’
I tentatively go to shake his hand. Paddy looks cautious that he may be another parental acquaintance come to say more awful things to my face.
‘We were just having a meal over there, that’s my team and we just saw your baby and… Is he always like this?’
I am slightly confused by the question. He doesn’t change into Batman in the evenings if that’s what he means?
‘I mean, he’s very good,’ he continues. ‘Very receptive to people.’
As if on cue, Joe reaches up to stroke the man’s beard and inspect if this stranger is to his liking. Giles laughs.
‘He’s generally very good with people. I have a large family so he’s used to it,’ I say.
‘He’s got gorgeous eyes. Is there any Mediterranean in him? I’m assuming you’re Mum?’
I nod. ‘I’m Beth and this is Paddy and the baby is Joe. There’s no Mediterranean there. He’s more chihuahua mixed with koala.’ He laughs in reply. However, the fact he had to question my relationship to Joe makes me think he doesn’t hold my face in the same esteem.
‘He has a very symmetrical face,’ Giles replied. ‘I’m not sure if anyone’s told you that before.’
I now narrow my eyes at him. Paddy grasps his knife and fork tightly in case he needs to intervene.
‘I’m sorry, I’m being weird. I should have just opened with who I am. I’m a creative director – I do commercials, ads, photography. I mean I know that we’ve just met but could you do me and my team the biggest favour, if you’re up for it?’
‘Up for what, exactly?’ I enquire.
I grip onto Joe tightly.
‘So, that young lady over there is Special K,’ says Giles.
Paddy looks at me like he can’t quite believe the comedy value the pub is giving him tonight for names. The girl in question is wearing denim that’s pretty much ripped from all angles like she’s been caught in a shredder, shards of her brown skin shining through. She’s undeniably pretty, edgy too, and waves in our direction. Paddy waves back.
‘We were supposed to shoot her album cover today. It was very high concept, there was supposed to be a baby involved but the baby wasn’t playing ball and so we were just wondering if we could use Joe here?’
‘She’s a musician?’ I ask.
‘A rapper.’
‘But named after a breakfast cereal?’ Paddy asks. I laugh.
‘I just shoot the pictures,’ Giles says, waving back at the table. ‘We’re shooting in a studio down the road. Come on over when you’re finished, it’d take moments. Your son is a beautiful baby and you’d be digging me out of a massive hole.’ He places a glossy business card on the table, that says Twinkle Twinkle. ‘We’re eating too; finish up and maybe think about it? Look me up or give the head office a call if you’re worried.’
Paddy nods while I scan Giles’ team trying to work them out. It’s all very trendy, definitely not in keeping with the early bird special vibe of the pub.
‘I am so sorry to interrupt your family meal,’ he says.
‘It’s fine, thank you.’
I’m not sure what else there is to say. Paddy’s not family. And Joe could be a model? All at once, I find that quite hilarious. The kid can’t even crawl; how will he manage a catwalk? He also eats a fair bit for a baby. I believe that’s not what models do. I sit here for a moment as Joe’s eyes follow Giles back to his table, mesmerised by the patterns on his shirt.
‘Told you Joe was beautiful,’ Paddy says proudly.
‘All babies are beautiful,’ I reply.
‘Nope, he wasn’t chasing that mum whose baby looked like a cabbage.’
I stuff some chips in my mouth, all golden and crispy. ‘Wasn’t that a bit weird? Scouting a baby in a pub?’ I say through mouthfuls of potato.
‘Maybe. He’s also got a beard. Just tread carefully.’
He studies their table from behind me.
‘What’s wrong with beards?’
‘They’re unhygienic. That bloke in flat five has one and I saw half a meatball fall out of his beard once.’
‘That never happen
ed.’
‘Yes, it did. Now eat up. All things considered, I quite like the idea of Joe being on an album cover. Betty would love that.’ I smile back broadly. The business card shimmers on the table, and Joe promptly puts in his mouth and starts eating it.
Will gets back at nine thirty that evening. By this point, I’m filled to the brim with pub grub. I’m sitting in bed, changed out of my dress and back in the safety of my trackies and T-shirt, chowing down on some Maltesers. Joe is sprawled out next to me and has that look about him, like he’s wasted on milk. I wonder if it tasted like fish and chips. I’m binge watching some crime drama that makes me never want to go on a night bus again.
Will comes straight through to the bedroom. Whereas I’ve lost control of my wardrobe and all concept of what is fashionable these days, Will has battled hard not to be a white-collar suit man, wearing his standard uniform of checked shirt, jeans and Converse. He was dressed in the exact same thing when I first met him. It was at a Fun Lovin’ Criminals gig at the Brixton Academy where we struck up a conversation in the cloakroom queue. I’m Will. Beth. We joked how these queues were always super long and how we shouldn’t have brought a coat. But then we’d never have met, Will said. We both laughed when we were handed our khaki parka jackets at the same time. And let’s face it, we were both pretty smashed so were snogging by the time we got outside the venue. He accessorises today with giant wireless earphones and a cool Scandinavian-branded satchel. In the winter, the look features a duffel coat and a beanie. It’s indie chic that’s been dragged into our thirties.
‘You eaten?’ I ask him.
‘I had a Burger King. I went large. I feel filthy.’
He comes over to kiss my forehead. I immediately pick up on a strong scent of beer.
‘You’ve been drinking?’
‘I had a few pints with Jason. Killer day. Sam was down my neck, the stress was unreal. I had to unwind.’
Jason was his single Londoner mate who always held Will’s hand and led him down the wrong path. I had assumed Will was late because of work but I don’t want to question it. Scrap that, I don’t have the energy. I can’t work out whether the emotion is jealousy or anger so I let it slide.
‘I made it to dinner with Paddy,’ I say.
‘Oh, the anniversary thing. How is he?’
‘He was fine. Quick question, remember that couple from the NCT group, the one who asked you to help draw up that extension? What came of that?’
‘He emails me once a week to remind me.’
‘I saw his wife today. They did end up calling their baby Valencia.’
‘That’s a very good football team. And you were upset that I wanted to call the baby Gascoigne. I ignore the emails. He’s a posh twat. Get rich, stay rich by grabbing freebies and not treating people very well.’
‘Good,’ I reply. ‘Also, something strange happened in the pub… We got approached by a guy who was a creative media type and he asked if he could borrow Joe for some shoot he’s doing for a rapper’s album cover. It was mental.’
Will perks up for a moment. You can tell he’s thinking his son may be as famous as the Nirvana Nevermind baby.
‘I Instagrammed her already. Her name is Special K. Up and coming British rap,’ I carry on.
‘Special K as in ketamine or the cereal?’
‘Neither. Her real name is Kimmie, it was her dad’s nickname for her growing up.’
I meet a lot of teens through my line of work as a teacher but I liked this one. She was polite and engaging and for a seventeen-year-old had a confidence that was way beyond her years, way beyond even someone like me.
‘So yeah, we did it,’ I say.
It was a crazy half an hour. After we agreed to be involved, we got led out to a studio across the road. They changed Joe into a new T-shirt, putting miniature earphones around his neck while a couple of people dragged some oil drums and rusty BMX bikes into view. I handed Joe over to Special K and he was entranced by her braids and big statement earrings. Why have a baby on a rap album cover? I was told it was a nod to youth, birth and innocence except I knew from Joe’s face that he was peeing in his nappy as she cradled him, so not so innocent at all. I then watched as he smiled, they got the photos Giles wanted and he offered us payment.
‘You didn’t take payment?’ asks Will.
‘It felt a bit wrong. Like I’d pimped him out.’
Will has his phone out to examine what this girl is all about and finds a video of her music. I’ve already had a listen. A touch of nineties garage with a strong bass and a meaningful rap vocal.
‘You’re in her Instagram stories already,’ he says. ‘She refers to someone called JoJo, is that our son?’
‘I guess. The director bloke also invited us in for other work. Baby modelling.’
Wills laughs, taking off his bag and earphones and lying next to his infant son. He does this every night when he’s not been here to wish him good night, putting his head next to our baby’s chest and watching it rise and fall.
‘Well, people keep telling me he’s cute. Magnus at work brought in pictures of his new baby. It’s sweet and all but it looks very shocked in all the photos,’ says Will.
‘I think it’s a bit awful judging a baby on its looks.’
‘I was an ugly baby. I had a giant head like a marshmallow. It was very square.’
‘And yet look how you blossomed,’ I reply.
‘’Tis a mystery.’
Will smiles at me and starts to disrobe, heading to the bathroom to relieve himself. Inside, he splashes his face with water like he’s trying to bring it back to life and jumps in the shower. He left at 6.30 this morning – it’s clearly been a day. And it’ll start all over again tomorrow. Will returns to the room, a towel around his midriff, drying himself in the way that you do when you’ve been with someone for nearly a decade, casual, knowing I won’t care that he stands there for a moment to give his balls a good scratch.
‘What you watching?’ he says, nodding at my laptop.
‘Crime thing. Those detectives are shagging but he’s married. They’re chasing a serial killer who likes to collect eyes.’
‘Who goes on the top deck of an empty night bus? That’s just asking for trouble.’
‘Right?’
I leave the bed as he gets cosy and go to brush my teeth. Lying down has refrizzed my hair so I look like I’m about to build a city on rock and roll. Where did Joe get it from, eh? Not from this blob. I stretch out my sallow cheeks and examine the bags under my eyes. With Will’s focus on the television, I also lift up my shirt to examine the damage. I always knew motherhood was going to change me physically. I know why. I have an appetite and I’m hardly the sort who was going to run to the gym as soon as a baby popped out. But as we left today’s pub photoshoot, one of the set dressers in bang-on-trend denim culottes gave me a look. And her eyes shuttled between me and Joe, questioning whether we matched or not. Paddy saw it too and nipped her in the ankles with the buggy, but I knew exactly what she meant. I can’t be angry. I am not at my physical peak. I’ve birthed a baby. I’m breastfeeding and it’s not like I’m dieting and nothing is changing. It’s just not on my agenda. This is my body now. I turn off the bathroom light and find Will set to pass out next to Joe, both looking like puppies who’ve been running in circles all day long.
‘What would your rap name be?’ I ask him.
‘Coop Doggy Dogg,’ he whispers. ‘Or W.C. My first album would be This is the Shit.’ I laugh before finding a corner of the bed and passing out next to them.
Track Four
She Moves In Her Own Way’ – The Kooks (2006)
‘Yeah, I know them. They do big commercials for Pampers and that. What were you doing in a pub?’ Meg asks.
‘Having dinner with her old neighbour lover,’ Lucy informs the group.
‘Is he handsome?’ Emma asks.
‘You’re shagging an old man?’ Meg looks confused.
I glance over at my sisters, sitti
ng in Emma’s kitchen, mocking me as per usual. Meg the eldest, who normally lives up North, is here given it’s the end of the summer holidays, so she’s come for a bank holiday visit and to remember what it feels like to be in the warm embrace of the South. Meg was my partner-in-crime when she lived in London. She worked in magazine publishing and I was a newly qualified teacher so we had a brilliant couple of years pissing our salaries away on alcohol and rent in dire house shares. I was there when she first met her husband, Danny, on a night out. I say I was there. I was so drunk that all I remember is that he had rubbish shoes. Her youngest kid, Polly, is a few months older than mine but as tired as Meg looks, it’s as if she’s just absorbed that chaos into her soul.
‘I’ve told you this before, plates to the left and then the bowls on the next layer, facing out.’
Emma and Lucy stand by a countertop, bickering over a poorly loaded dishwasher. Emma is the second eldest, the deputy, while Lucy is the youngest, who loads the cutlery the wrong way up because she’s a rebel and enjoys the danger. On the order of my mother, Lucy moved into this place after Emma’s divorce. I did put my hand up and say that was the worst idea I’d ever heard given they are complete character opposites, but Lucy does seem to be helping in her own way, even if that translates into helping Emma stand up to her cheating ex-husband and not cleaning her house. I hear girls thunder up and down the stairs asking if they can have crisps. The shouts of their mothers tell them to wait for dinner or to eat a piece of fruit. I don’t like fruit. Then you can’t be that hungry. I love the clamour. This is what our childhood was like, it was busy, frantic and loud voices filled the room like music. The one sister missing is Grace, who’s on her travels having been through a horrific year after losing her husband. She is the one we all miss, the one who holds it altogether because when all the sisters are in the same room, there’s a kind of strange mystical magic that overcomes the place. Stars align; it’s a lot for the universe to deal with.
‘So, he’s legit?’ I ask Meg, drawing the conversation back to the baby modelling. Her eldest daughter, Tess, swoops in to hug her from behind. She was my first ever niece, the first Callaghan baby. I remember the day she was born, it felt like an heir to the throne had arrived.
Did My Love Life Shrink in the Wash?: An absolutely laugh-out-loud and feel-good page-turner Page 5
